


The Best Friends in Lankhmar

by Caprice363



Category: Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser - Fritz Leiber
Genre: Assassination, Blood Magic, F/tGM - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magic, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, White Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 01:19:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21347911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprice363/pseuds/Caprice363
Summary: FIRST in a series of tales. Stands alone but, yes, the start of my interpretation of Fritz Lieber's adventurers. It's near dawn at the Silver Eel located on Dim Lane in Lankhmar, the City of the Black Toga. Sword-mates Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser discuss their latest quest and how, as usual, it got away from them. Still, all's well that ends ... even if not the way it was expected. Other memories are provoked.
Relationships: Fafhrd/The Gray Mouser
Kudos: 3





	The Best Friends in Lankhmar

**Author's Note:**

> Been loving the stories of Fritz Lieber & his friend Harry Otto Fischer for almost 60 years. Was recently hammered over the head with them again. I've used some passages from Lieber's work; also working with Fisher's description of the Mouser's early years when he learned his various skills from Mokker, Prince of Pimps in Lankhmar (doncha know Ian McShane wold play him in the movie?), and became apprentice to white magician Glavas Rho, who gave the Mouse his name. This story is complete, but have written & hope to write more. Everyone here is so good - and this is my first shot at fanfic in a couple of decades. First ever in this fandom.

Owing a HUGE debt to Fritz Leiber and Harry Otto Fischer

_The Best Friends in Lankhmar_

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I

THE NIGHT had begun well enough for Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser with a dinner at the Raging Swan. It was one of Lankhmar’s finest dining establishments catering to both noble and knave as long as they entered with coin and manners. There could be no brawling and no incivility of any kind or it’s extremely polished maiordoma would have the offenders expelled with orders to never return. Better that than risk the wrath of the Swan’s notoriously ill-tempered master chef, Osegael.

His was a tongue that could flay the skin from a man. He was also quick to use well-honed kitchen knives on those who offended him, helper, server or patron. Such uncertainty added a certain spice to a meal, and so the Swan had become as much entertainment venue as fine eatery. The evening’s exquisite repast was made more diverting when an arrogant duke and his entourage were expelled.

Once dinner and wine had been enjoyed, the tall, red-haired barbarian Fafhrd and the sleek, much smaller Gray Mouser took to the streets. Both were fine swordsman, both were adventurers and thieves. Their skills, to a point, were for hire, but mostly the companions preferred their own schemes to others. Who better to trust? They enjoyed a long ramble through the city, visiting the theater district and old haunts, spreading the wealth and good humor until they reached the Silver Eel.

Sadly, pickings had been scarce during the past year. In truth, it was closer to two. Even for the two best thieves in Lankmar – better even than those of the Thieves Guild – there was nothing to gain if there was naught to be stolen. Storms of rare ferocity had beleaguered coastal cities with sinking ships and rising tides until trade was nearly at a standstill. Unprecedented waves of heat and cold, rain and drought weakened farms and livestock until famine hovered ghost-like over the fields. Meanwhile, the well-fed overlord, magistrates and guild masters warred among each other, bringing solutions to a standstill. Then came the plagues, short in length yet still...

Some god – or gods – required appeasement, but who?

Newhon had so many and most ill-willed or out of temper. At best apathetic, the Mouser mused seated alone in the darkest corner of the Silver Eel. Located near the Marsh Gate and its abundance of stinks, it was one of Lankhmar’s Swampside taverns and well-known to the rogues and poor who lived there. It was also known for its good, home brewed ale and fiery brandy. It would never be a haunt for those who favored the Raging Swan, but it was a kind of home for the Mouser and his equally rogue companion, Fafhrd.

Fafhrd had seated himself near the fireplace delivering ballads of his Northern home, with harper Riza and drummer Kumailinan. They were old acquaintances, living for their muses and the occasional grift. Throughout the small hours, Fafhrd’s soul-wrenching tenor soared, transporting others into a world of hard-earned heroic deeds, then falling to the whisper of war’s bitter aftermath, blood-soaked land, grieving loved ones, and fat ravens. It was enough to bring chills, which suited the Mouser’s sudden darksome mood perfectly.

He gave his dagger, the current Cat’s Claw, a minor push of magic. It skipped over the table surface, blade whirling from center to edge and back, again and again, a dancer in a silver gown.

So, their skills answered where opportunity called. Most recently to Baron Jarell, who would regain his missing daughter. Both rogues mistrusted the man at once, Jarell pinging the Mouser with thoughts of his past. Still, he shrugged presentiment aside even as it chimed like the soft peal of a temple bell during the interview. He and Fafhrd took in the particulars of the mission. Pickings were scarce and adventures few of late. Talent took what was available, even from the black, lying heart of a monster.

II

IT WAS AS true as good steel. Musicians always took care of their instruments before themselves. Riza had covered her harp in its leather sack before dropping against the wall and falling asleep. Kumailinan sprawled beside her, curled around his drum, straps laced securely in his arms. 

Morning was near and the Eel nearly empty. It never closed, but had its tides, high and low. Fafhrd stepped up to the bar, and then over to the Mouser’s table, with two dented but otherwise clean silver cups in one hand and a half-measure of the Eel’s darkest brandy in the other. He stopped to admire Cats Claw’s handiwork, a deeply ingrained pattern of loops and lines carved into the wood like a spider’s web gone mad.

The Mouser peered up; then caught his blade’s hilt and returned the weapon to its mouseskin sheath. Fafhrd lifted an eyebrow. “Scratching up the furniture again, little man? Liam One-eye won’t appreciate it.”

“Why not?” The Mouser stretched the stiffness from his shoulders. He’d been too still for too long. “We should charge him for this. The sigal is guaranteed to ward off marauding giants and walking trees.”

Fafhrd raised an eyebrow. “Truth?”

“No.”

“You. Are. A maniac.”

“Yes. Dangerous, too, or so I’ve heard.” The Mouser tried to hide a smile. The Northerner knew him too well.

“Well, there’s no doubt about that.” Fafhrd pulled out a chair and sat. No need to keep his back to the wall with Mouser on watch. Only careless swordsmen invited a chance assassin, and there was always a bounty on their heads. “Now, if you’d said it warded away trolls, you’d have some chance of belief. They’re everywhere. But giants – walking trees on Dim Lane or anywhere in Lankhmar? I’d say it’s a stubborn, strong tree that could survive here. I’m not sure even magic could take it.”

“Possibly trim it down a bit. At least.”

“At least.” Fafhrd agreed holding the brandy bottle up for inspection. “Nightcap?”

“Of course.”

Fafhrd poured them each a healthy draught. “Dinner was good tonight," he said. "It’s been a long time since we’ve had such a banquet. Very decadent.” He raised his cup; the Mouser touched his to the lip. “The wine was good. Unusually blue. Watching Duke Stahleski turned out on his bum was the best part.”

“Such a shock.” The Gray One was all out grinning now.

Fafhrd chuckled. “Arrogant ass.”

“We are in accord.” The Mouser raised his cup again. It was Fafhrd’s turn to touch lip to rim, and top him off.

“To good deeds and increased fortune.” 

“For those who deserve it.”

Silence fell between them after a satisfying quaff until Fafhrd spoke quietly: “Twas no bad turn, Mouser mine. Dahlika and her young man are safe.”

The gray one dropped his cheery façade. “From that lowlife excuse of a breeder and his minions.” 

“Baron Jarrell was evil, most aristos are, whether buffoon or brute. At least we saved the girl.”

“Dahlika saved herself. With a dagger to the heart.”

“And you sulk because you didn’t beat her to it? Ah … I’d never wish a father’s death on anyone, but did she have a choice? No. The girl has spirit, skill and nerve all her own. May it serve her well.” Fafhrd took another sip of brandy. “And now, she need not fight as hard since we’re the men who ended those who might challenge her.”

“Our gold was well-earned,” the Mouser agreed sullenly. “Still … those scars. Her stories …”

Fafhrd emptied the last of the bottle into their cups. “Made you remember another.”

The Mouser’s glance hovered close to rage. Fafhrd met it squarely. “Ivrian is never far from your thoughts, nor Vlana from mine. We hear and see such stories every day, and have little chance to stop them. We cannot save every child, nor stop all evil from taking place. Would it were so. Here, we did good – more than Jarrell expected.” He chuckled, considering, as he finished his drink. “Dahlika would not take to coddling … M’thinks she’s too much like you.” 

“Hmph. Now there’s a fate.” 

“Every good cat finds its way in the dark.” Fafhrd pushed himself up to his full seven-foot height. “Finish that and let’s to bed. Night’s black shadows are chased by light of day.”

Somewhat consoled, the Mouser rose to his feet. Clad in his customary gray silks, he looked more shadow than man, a small ghost, two feet less than his companion. He followed Fafhrd to the stairs; then shook himself half-way up, deciding he’d had enough melancholy. Didn’t his good friend deserve better than a sullen cat? The Mouser swayed, once and deliberately, against Fafhrd, bestowing favor like the sorry feline he was.

Once inside, the Mouser secured the door as only he could, with lock and wards, a final spell to the night. Fafhrd undressed, folded his clothes carefully and placed them on the shelf that served as wardrobe. He pulled the quilts down from his bed, and climbed in. It was cool outside, another shift in the weather. Who could imagine such a day in summer? Like Fafhrd, the Mouser set his weapons aside – but not too far – hanging hooded vest, tunic and leggings just as carefully on the hooks near his own bed. He then turned and waited until Fafhrd opened the covers for him, and climbed inside.

They both sighed, curling together. So it had been not too long after first meeting … after they had raided the Thieves’ House and avenged the murders of their first loves. For many nights after, grief and shame had laid them low, cut to the soul. Day followed day, and night into night without relief. They had no ambition except to put distance between themselves and the City of the Black Toga, home of the cruelest of gods.

On their journey, there came a time when Fafhrd noticed his new friend did not cry. The Mouser shivered; he moaned, especially in his sleep, but there were no tears. Curiosity and concern began to pull him from his own grief. He cautiously touched the Mouser’s shoulder - and nearly lost his hand.

It wasn’t much later he discovered the Mouser did not cry; he would not, possibly could not shed tears. As more of his friend’s past was revealed to him, Fafhrd learned what a deadly weakness tears were for a child of Lankhmar’s slums, a slave’s child and a pimp’s property. Such weakness only invited cruelty. Only the cats were his friends. He was perhaps seven years, perhaps eight, when he killed the man who paid to rape him, and when Mokker, Prince of Pimps, decided to have him trained as his personal assassin. It seemed, the pimp said, the child had a natural gift. He could learn that just as well as the dance, legerdemain and acrobatics cultivated to entertain the house.

Training was ruthless, but the Mouse was determined to learn the profession, which also included reading, writing and composition. He was, as Mokker said, a natural destined to become the pimp’s black hand. Through this the Mouse survived, even thrived. There were no more rags, and more than scraps and shelter in the kitchen. He grew little in stature, but more in wiry strength. He understood the mechanics of greed, jealousies, loyalties, love and hate; the perversions of pimps and whores, and the artlessness of good men and women. His conscience was never threatened when it came to the murder of evil men, nor did he scorn to manipulate them. He shared the rewards of his new status with his old friends, the cats and a few beggar-rats as he had once been. In truth, Mouse preferred their company even as he became as skillful in the art of conversation as he was in weapon-play. In truth, he became so good that Mokker came to rely on him as a go-between in certain “delicate” negotiations.

So the slim and cunning Mouse became respected by many and feared by more. Mokker, who owed his livelihood to treachery, couldn’t help but notice. Age brought experience, but also produced doubt. Was his reputation in question? On a whim to prove loyalty, he sent Mouse to kill a kindly merchant, a good husband and father. His assassin balked at the scene as Mokker knew he would. The youth was punished within a thread of his life. The pimp did not wish his slave dead, only reminded of his place. Mokker murdered the merchant and his family himself, displaying the heads while the youth lay bandaged and abed. An extreme act, but necessary, he decided. At any rate, it could not be undone.

Even so, it changed the relationship between them. Healing, Mouse strayed from the Court of Dark Delights to the Nightingale, an inn some streets away frequented by poets and scholars, artists, writers and musicians. It was also the domain of minor priests and disgraced wizards. It was one called Glavas Rho, a one-time master of white magic, who caught Mouse’s eye and ear. Age had taken most of the old wizard’s spells, but not his tongue or wit. Here was the gentle heart to soothe the one broken within Mouse.

His former companions were surprised when Mouse, who still retained a modicum of freedom, chose to become the wizard’s new and only student. They found it amusing, though not the Prince of Pimps. Mokker had no trust in a wizard-assassin. He may have considered himself a father to the diminutive and deadly whelp; he certainly felt a touch of affection, but did not take chances. He thought to have the old man killed; that would solve the problem. He could make it seem accidental and prevent further strife. Unfortunately, Mokker waited too long to make the move Mouse knew was coming. The boy paid for his freedom with blood. No one missed a dead pimp; there were too many waiting to take his place although Mouse wasn’t one of them. He left Lankhmar at dawn the next day, losing himself in the crowds of the Great South Gate, Glavas Rho at his side. 

Fafhrd understood more than was said. Mokker, as intelligent and conniving as he was, had underestimated his slave both in heart and ability. He had seen others do the same to their peril. He also understood the Mouser’s quest for another life. He, too, had known a child’s longing for escape. It had taken Fafhrd from his homeland, this search for “civilization” and flight from the evil sorceries of Mos, the woman who birthed him. 

Yet fate remained merciless. Re-born as the Gray Mouser, he did all he could to give Ivrian, his princess-love, what they had never known. They destroyed her father, the Mouser using black magic and sheer willpower, which nearly killed him in the process and left inky black sigals burned onto his skin, sigals that sometimes writhed and changed as he slept. Escaping back to Lankhmar, Ivrian received every care and kindness her capable lover could provide. For himself, Fafhrd had entered the great city with plans to satisfy his ferocious love, Vlana. She had also lost her innocence to pain and misfortune. Yet despite all, Vlana would not rest until she had vengeance on the Thieves Guild, who had slain her friends.

Neither Fafhrd nor the Mouser could save their women from the blackness loosed against them. That spell-cursed slaughter was intended for them, not the gentle Ivrian, not fiery Vlana. Their shame and fury came from knowing their lovers died in their place. For that there could be no forgiveness; no peace.

But time passed and trust grew stronger between them. They came to understand their strengths together made would-be enemies hesitate. Both heard an unspoken whisper, a voice which said the Mouser and Fafhrd had known each other before in some other place, in some other life or lives. They suited each other too well. To harm Fafhrd was to risk a prolonged and torturous death at hands of a practiced killer. Injury to the Mouser would be similarly fatal from the walking wall of muscle named Fafhrd. Like the Mouser, he was often misjudged. No one expected an intelligence to match the brawn.

Still, Fafhrd got only a hiss and a snarl the first time he placed a comforting hand on the Mouser’s shoulder. Dire warning glittered from dark, gold-flecked eyes. It was as if he had suddenly cornered some wild and wounded animal. Words lost meaning, reduced to shushes and whispers until the Mouser would allow it, giving Fafhrd a relief of his own.

There would be other nights, other small comforts until, nearly a year later they lay together, flesh to flesh. They never spoke of it the following morning. Later, when desire and need visited more often, they wondered at it. Neither sought men for their beds, except the Mouser, whose introduction to pleasure had come so early. He enjoyed the occasional orgy. Such random episodes provoked Fafhrd’s perpetual curiosity, but not much more than that. Usually. There were always scrolls to be read and pondered; new songs to be learned or composed. Both would have been embarrassed by vows of monogamy or such. What they had was strong enough and good.

III

IT HAD BEEN too long, the Mouser thought tumbling into Fafhrd’s arms. He lay against the mountainous chest, hair smooth as cat’s fur, while the thin quilt closed around them. Fafhrd’s arms closed around him, too, as calloused hands began to break the knots in his neck and shoulders; fingers carefully tracing old scars and new. It was a ritual of sorts. Fafhrd explored his Mouser’s body, eventually following the runes and sigals inked into his skin as if he hoped to release some secret. 

With lips and limbs, the Mouser blazed his own trail over warm skin and muscle, adrift in a world of flesh. He laughed softly as Fafhrd’s lips began to worry his shoulder, an unmarked spot over a recent wound. It would bruise, but gently. As much as the Mouser’s inner demons craved it, Fafhrd was not one to deliver pain. The man would never willingly hurt him – and it would hurt the Northerner if he provoked it. The cat sighed, twining skilled fingers into long, red hair, easing braids apart and laving Fafhrd’s throat with tongue and teeth. He would have tickled himself against Fafhrd’s beard, if it had grown out again, but cheeks and jaw were shaved smooth now, and there was only stubble that would burn if he played too hard.

There was no need for pain, the Mouser decided. Surely he’d had enough of it. Surely. He twisted around until he lay on his back, a willing sacrifice to Fafhrd’s sun-drenched, blazing heat. This was the man of the wild, of the mountains. Such pale skin and fiery hair falling like a shield over their faces; it chased all shadows from its path. The Mouser stretched again, straining every lithe muscle, and grasping hold of the carved bedstead. His hips rose to welcome Fafhrd’s weight. He felt as taut as a bowstring ready to snap, and prayed it would last.

Fafhrd licked sweat from his upper lip, his moan lowering into a deep, growling keen so different from the trained tenor. He spread the Mouser open and prepared them for joining. Impatient, the Mouser threw his legs over Fafhrd’s shoulders, pulling them together, and was just as quickly restrained. He could have screamed at the delay … and probably did. But Fafhrd held him steady, fingers biting into his hips and thighs until he was still, until he was sheathed to the hilt in tender flesh. 

Fafhrd barked a sound meant to gentle the beast inside them both, then began a rhythm that grew stronger with every thrust. The Mouser could, and sometimes did hurt himself. It didn’t happen with others; the cat was too cautious to lose that much control. That he was so well trusted was both joy and anguish, but the Northerner could only restrain himself for so long. The Mouser sobbed, faint tears sparkling from beneath tightly closed eye lids. Fafhrd watched as something hard and bitter began to crumble within the smaller body, something that brought more tears, then pleas, until the cat echoed the thrust pounding through him. Then came a flip that brought the Mouser up to straddle Fafhrd’s body, taking and giving pleasure until release took them both. The Mouser collapsed in a heap, shaking. Fafhrd’s arms closed around him again, driving the trembles away, bodies cooling. 

The Mouser finally settled against Fafhrd’s side. Shudders of pleasure and relief still raced through his limbs as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Who would believe it? Tears … and he never cried. Never. There had been beatings, whippings, all manner of wounds and torture. He’d been branded. Once. But no tears, no cleansing. “Cats have no need to cry,” his mother had whispered, her words near-smothered under the roar of the sea. “Stay with the cats whenever you can.” It was the last he’d seen of her.

Fafhrd stirred himself enough to stroke the Mouser’s back once more. He took in a deep breath that became a yawn as slumber took him. The Mouser laughed silently, curling his fingers into the hair of Fafhrd’s chest. Flushed and filled with energy to spare, the Mouser lay silently for a while, his arm rising and falling with Fafhrd’s every breath. When the Northerner began snoring, he slipped carefully out of bed, uncorked the bedside vessel and filled the basin with water left by the chambermaid. He smiled; it was still warm. There would be silver in her purse come daylight, a coin to return her courtesy. Did Fafhrd believe him a good cat? He could at least try to be. The Mouser cleaned Fafhrd, then himself. He settled the quilts over his sword-mate and fell into his own bed.

IV

ROGUES AND THIEVES slept during the day, all the better to partake of the night’s pleasures and opportunities. Well-fed and returning to the room after a late afternoon's grooming, Fafhrd spotted the Mouser's heap of quilts and pillows, but no body was to be seen in the cat's corner pallet. There was only a lump and the tavern cat, Grandfather, staring up at him, slit-eyed with superiority. There would always be a cat, sometimes more. Fafhrd never heard the Mouser call the beasts; they simply arrived. Some were mangy and battle-scarred like this, others fat and well-groomed. They found the Mouser no matter where he lay or sat or walked. If there were cats within a mile, they showed up peering from alleys, in marble halls and merchant’s homes. The Mouser could send them scampering with a glance, but Fafhrd knew they remained. Hidden. Invisible. Somewhere. It was strange, but one got used to it.

“Here’s food, _cirfiid,_” Fafhrd announced in conversational tones. There was no need to shout; it was hours past noon. By Kos, it had taken some time before he could even try to sit up, much less stand. He’d spent less energy in a fight, certainly taken fewer wounds. The Mouser tried to be careful, but you couldn’t count on it, not in bed. 

Fafhrd grinned. It was the day of the Toad in the month of the Murder's Moon in the year of the Burning Mountain. Almost a sixty-sixty chance of good fortune awaited them. “Porridge and figs. Hard rolls,” he called again, placing the tray near the lump, but not too close. “Gahveh’s still hot.”

The last announcement produced a tremor. Dark eyes peered out, then a hand. A head. “Is the bath free?”

“Fresh scoured.”

“Mmm …” Now there was a noise of interest. The bedding shifted again and more of the Mouser was revealed. He sat up and poured gahveh into a cup, adding a generous dash of sweet cream, and set aside a portion for the cat.

“News?” The Mouser asked between careful sips. The gahveh was as hot and fresh as promised.

“It’s good.” Fafhrd’s green eyes glittered. “A caravan’s arrived at the Great Gate bearing a full load of goods. It appears to have weathered storms and sand and bears in the forest. Brigands, too, but they’ve suffered serious loss among the guards.”

“Those poor beleaguered merchants,” the Mouser returned, a knowing glint in his eyes. “How weary they must be. Surely someone will show pity and teach them the ways of Lankhmar. Its customs, its ins-and-outs and hidey-holes.”

“Surely,” Fafhrd agreed. “Though I’m not certain about the holes.”

“Bath’s free, you say?”

“That way.” He nodded toward the door and picked up a fig.

The Mouser stretched once more. He issued a jaw-cracking yawn and got to his feet snagging up a gray silk robe trimmed in silver fox. He shuffled into slippers of worn brocade, grabbed gahveh and porridge, then headed for the door. One-eye’s cat followed.

The robe fell open, slipping over the Mouser’s shoulder, where Fafhrd saw his rose in full bloom. Another shrug and the Mouser fastened his garment, walking away with an intentional sway of hip. That slight, teasing glimpse was a direct hit in the groin. For an instant, Fafhrd wanted nothing more than to throw the little fiend back onto the bed. Shallow scratches and bites on his arms and back burned anew. He pictured the Mouser grinning up at him – small sharp teeth aiming a half-hearted bite at his face. Dark eyes were merry, glowing with tiger's gold. There was laughter, always laughter, until Fafhrd caught that mouth with his and drank it in. Both would be gasping for air when he pulled back, only inches away this time, hearts pounding.

It occurred to him – sometimes – how similar the Mouser was to Vlana, horribly battered, yet never broken; loyal unto death. He quickly drove such unlucky thoughts away, making a sign to ward off evil, and sending a prayer to Kos for good measure. _Good wine and a fatted boar. Maybe a cow,_ he promised. Whichever he could find that he’d deem worthy. 

It would be an hour or more until Fafhrd saw the Mouser again, freshly bathed and dressed. Together, they would learn more about the caravan. Perhaps there was work to be had, or some treasure to plunder? There might even be cattle to appease the gods and fill the Eel's larder. No god would deny them repast after it was slain for him. Or her. It was only reasonable.

Perhaps, this day might also go well.

**Tovilyian**  
_ Cirfiid_ \- Fiend, friendly


End file.
